My beautiful quilt, in a cabinet in my room,
Spun from the most delicate loom,
Many stories it needs to tell,
The quilt that I would never, ever, sell.
A hundred years old or more,
Sewed with real tales and fairytale lore,
Wonderful secrets of mire and mist,
Many children under this blanket were kissed.
On it my great-grandmother's painting, so long ago,
Even though quite faded, it does still show,
A family around a table eating a Thanksgiving meal,
With joy on their faces, and a wagon wheel.
Another with a prince fighting a troll,
A glorious snowy night, the sky as black as coal.
Some are happy, some are sad,
But none of them are ever bad.
Still, I can think of nothing better to do
Than to listen to the mourning doves coo,
And to curl up in a quilt of stories and dreams,
Of soft grass and sunlight beams.
I tell the quilt many tales,
Of mysterious forests and golden sails.
Sometimes I think I can hear the quilt whisper in my ear,
Though sometimes the voice will dissappear,
"Thank you for the stories you tell.
Your grandchildren will know them well."
_pure_imagination_
